


Let your body decide

by solrosan



Series: Asexuality [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Mentions of Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solrosan/pseuds/solrosan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggles to fit into (and understand himself in) our sexualised society after discovering that sex with a woman isn't what popular culture has told him it would be. But how long can he keep trying when sex with men isn’t any better? When is it time to just give up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Am I Straight?

**Author's Note:**

> Laura has been an amazing help in this process, both when it comes to making the parts work together (especially the end) and taking away the worst of my English mistakes. Thank you, dear. 
> 
> The title of the fic comes from The Ark’s [Let your body decide](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwNBlZSiHZs) and the title of each chapter can be found in the lyrics.

* * *

Sherlock lay flat on his back, staring up the ceiling, feeling confusingly violated and…empty. Slowly, the emptiness was filled with epinephrine and, in response to that, his heart rate increased, his vision closed and it became harder and harder to breathe properly. He wasn’t completely sure, since he’d never done it before, but he didn’t imagine sex would lead to a panic attack.

It wasn’t what popular culture had made him believe. Popular culture just showed how amazing and wonderful and desirable it was. He had constantly during his seventeen years been told that he was supposed to long for sex, live for sex. That he was supposed to breathe for it. Especially since he was a young man. Apparently young men only had one thought in their head: getting up girls’ skirts and down their blouses. Or did that constitute two thoughts?

Popular culture lied a lot though. It presented an ideal that few, if anyone, could live up to. Beauty, wealth, fashion, fame…whatever. It was easy to dismiss, easy to see how exaggerated it was. At least to him. But evidently you were supposed to be fooled by all of this to fit in, to not stand out. To be accepted.

Sherlock hated the ideal but, luckily, it was rather easy for him to live up to most parts. He came from money, was more or less raised in designer clothes and fitted right into what popular culture deemed as handsome. A part of him had thought it would be the same with sex; something he didn’t really see the point of but still perform well beyond average. That part of him actually thought he would understand what the fuss was about once he’d done it. 

Obviously, he had been wrong.

He was just lying there, naked, smelling like sweat and…and…euh. He winced. The bed was too small, the room was too hot, his skin was too tight, the body next to him too close. 

The body next to him. 

The body almost on top of him. 

The body that also smelled of sweat and intimacy and… sex. 

The body, or Annie Rees as might be the proper way to think about his sex partner, was suffocating him. Not physically but psychologically; her arm was holding him down, her leg was between his legs, her hot breath was frequently attacking his neck. Her breasts were…well…soft actually, but too close, pressed up against him. 

He felt claustrophobic. 

Sticky.

Nauseous.

Sherlock concluded that there were no way people normally felt like this after sex because, if that was the case, the human race would have ceased to exist a long time ago. Perhaps sex was something that got better in time, like the taste of caffeine beverages and cigarettes? The problem was that he couldn’t see why anyone would try it a second time if the first time left everyone feeling like this.

Curiosity had made him to here. Curiosity and a non-recognised wish to be like everybody else. Annie Rees was just the means; his underachieving lab partner who still put up with him. She was nice to him and those persons were rare. He had convinced himself he loved her because he had felt more for her than he had for any other female. 

Now he just wanted to flee and never see her again. 

This wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Once again, popular culture had fooled him. Stupid. He was supposed to be better than this. Smarter than this. Love had been promoted by popular culture a lot longer than sex though and it was harder to see through emotions.

Suddenly Sherlock felt something wet against his neck. Oh no…. She was awake. She was kissing his neck. Correction, she was sucking on his neck like a vampire. 

Stop. 

Please, stop!

No words came out of his mouth, just a whimpering sound that apparently was mistaken for approval because she continued. She changed position to be able to kiss his mouth. He didn’t respond. Didn’t react. Just closed his eyes and hoped she would think he was sleeping.

Naive hope. 

Her hand went down between his legs and he bit his lip in panic when he felt his body reacting in ways he couldn’t control. She would definitely misinterpret that. He had to do something to stop this. He wanted it to stop, he _needed_ it to stop, and he forced her hand away, putting one of his between their mouths. 

“What?” she said, turning on the bedside lamp, looking confused, and a bit amused, by his actions.

“Please don’t,” Sherlock said in a weak voice.

“But you want to,” she said, giving his erection a telling look. It was not a question. It was a statement. He had an erection. He was a teenage boy. He always wanted it. 

Except he didn’t. Never really had, especially not now.

Sherlock shook his head. It was frustrating that words – his otherwise loyal allies – seemed to fail him when he needed them the most. Sex had ruined him!

“Why?” she asked and he could read disappointment and hurt feelings on her face, “You didn’t like it?”

Even though he wasn’t accustomed to the proper etiquettes in post-coitus situations, Sherlock was fairly sure the truth would be a disastrous way to go. He rarely picked up on those things. Perhaps sex hadn’t just ruined him; perhaps it had made him more attentive to other people? 

“I….” he started, “I don’t have another condom.”

That wasn’t even a lie, but he hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious. At least not as obvious as her disappointment. It did the trick though and she settled on just giving him a thorough kiss. That much he could stand when he knew it wasn’t going to be anything more.

* * *

It never became anything more, at least not with Annie Rees. She wanted to, but Sherlock was very careful to always slip away before anything became too…intent. It was torture to be around her in class, during lunch hours, just all the time. She didn’t want to give him any space, at all, but he knew she was going to get bored soon enough (perhaps even angry) when he didn’t perform and then he would be alone. 

In the end, popular culture was right about one thing: sex changes everything.

* * *

The opportunity to move away to university couldn’t come fast enough. Not just to get away from Annie Rees, but to get away from all the childish drama, all the idiotic bullies, all the pointless classes…. Sherlock wanted the opportunity to start over and see if there was any truth in the popular cultural idea of “finding one’s true self” during the whole university experience. 

He was in a great need to find himself. Figuring himself out. 

It didn’t take long before his new classmates found the same version of him as his former ones had seen though. When they described him “eccentric” and “brilliant” were the few kind words they used. Sometimes “musical genius” was added, but it was mostly just his neighbours who knew that side of him and they didn’t appreciate violin music at odd hours of the day. Therefore, his musical skills were added to the more insulting list of descriptions: “know-it-all”, “complacent”, “vainglorious”, “freak”…. Sherlock stopped keeping a list during his second semester when he realised that people at uni weren’t cleverer in their insults than thirteen-year-olds.

Still, university life was a huge improvement; the classes were challenging and not everyone was an ignorant prick. There was a tangible sense of belonging and Sherlock felt like he fitted here, like universities were made for people just like him.

For people just like him and Nina and Victor and Rainflower (who might be the only person Sherlock had met who hated her own name more than he despised his). For the first time in Sherlock’s life he actually had friends. Equal minds. 

That was probably the biggest improvement of all. 

He met Nina late one night in the chem. lab when she snuck in after hours and preformed the unnecessary task of picking the lock – Sherlock had already picked it for the very same reason. Victor was the lead violinist in the university’s orchestra and he was amazing. So amazing that Sherlock had to complement him on it after a concert and as one thing lead to another they ended up playing duets at least two times a week. Rainflower worked extra as a barista at one of the coffee shops on campus and had asked insulting and curious questions about his name every time he’d been there. Most of her repertoire had been novel enough for him to come back just to see what she would come up with next. 

The first time Sherlock got high was on a Persian rug in Nina’s bedsit and he got to cut all of her long, black hair of for an experiment (under the condition he provided a sperm sample for her). He trusted Victor to play his Stradivarius and Victor took him back stage at Royal Albert Hall once. Rainflower introduced him to mystery novels and taught him how to roll his own cigarettes and in return, Sherlock called her Tess. 

The intimacy Sherlock shared with these three people was like nothing he had felt before; in groups of three (all four rarely happened since Victor and Tess didn’t stand each other for some reason) or tête-à-tête he always felt he could be true to himself and therefore, comfortable.

* * *

What happened when Sherlock and Nina tried a new “chemical experiment” on the Persian rug was probably inevitable. They lay on the rug, looking into each other's eyes and giggling like idiots to a tape recording of Victor playing Corelli. Then, as a natural next step, their lips touched. It was initiated by Nina, but not refused by Sherlock. Not even when Nina opened her mouth and put her tongue inside his mouth. Nina pulled him closer to her, wrapping one leg around him. 

The kiss was sloppy and wet and...completely off mark. Sometimes it was hard to really tell if they were kissing or washing each other's faces in one of the world’s most impractical ways. It was most likely highly unsanitary, but Sherlock noted that it wasn’t completely repulsive and he kept giggling as the kiss prolonged. 

It was a familiar closeness: the body, the smell, even the sounds. It was Nina. Therefore, and perhaps in combination with the...chemical experiment, it took some time for Sherlock’s body to react to what was happening. Even longer for his mind to notice. 

Nina slid herself on top of him, her weight making it harder to breathe. She felt his face with her fingertips, smiling at him in that adorable way he liked. He was probably just as intoxicated as she was, but he still noticed her extremely dilated pupils because they made her eyes appear completely black. Without the smile, she would have looked scary. With the smile, she looked insane….

He raised his hands to feel her face the same way she felt his, but instead of letting him do that she guided his hands down to her breasts. Sherlock let her, but for some reason her breasts felt threatening. Sherlock frowned because he couldn’t understand how that was even possible. Breasts couldn’t be a threat; they weren’t different from a foot or a nose. To prove this he moved his hand from her breast to her nose.

She giggled, of course she did. He liked her giggle and joined in but they both stopped when Nina abruptly kissed him again. It was just as the last time – messy but not repulsive – but Sherlock's response wasn't as enthusiastic this time.

The weight of her body and her mouth against his made him feel claustrophobic. Her way of grinding against his crotch and the hand on its way down to his hip made him feel alarmingly panicked. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, but his brain told him that there was nothing to fight off, nothing to flee from. It was just Nina; no matter how hard his heart was beating or how fast he was breathing. It was Nina and, no matter what his reptile brain told him, she was no threat. The sane, analysing part of his brain knew that. Even under the influences of whatever it was they had smoked tonight.

Nina got up from lying on top of him and instead seated herself on his thighs. That was nice per se, since it made breathing easier, but she smiled in a way Sherlock had never seen before and it frightened him. She giggled as she pulled off her top and let it fall to the floor.

Sherlock's instincts fought hard to take control over his body, his mind. His actions. It didn't work; he was paralysed under her touch. 

A sudden gasp left him when her hand was back in his pants, stroking his penis, and – finally! – his body responded to its great urge to make her stop. He grabbed her wrist, hard enough to make her squeal. 

“Please don't,” he said in a low, pleading, voice as his erection slowly started to disappear when she stopped moving her hand.

“What?” Nina said curiously, tilting her head. Sherlock had a sudden flashback to the last time he had asked a woman take her hand of his private parts. He let go of her wrist. Her hand slipped out of his trousers and instead she placed both hands on his belly.

“Please don't,” he repeated, whimpering.

“What is it, luv?” Nina looked worried and moved her hands again, placing one of them on his cheek. The touch was innocent again; he could feel the difference and sniffled in relief. 

“Oh Hon...” she said, rolling off him and pulling him into a hug, “Are you having a bad one?”

Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes to get away from her gaze.

“I'm sorry, luv,” Nina said and kissed him in the same platonic way he'd seen her kiss her sister (still on the mouth, it freaked Victor out). “Why didn't you tell me?”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at her for a minute, a week, a year.... Her pupils were still oddly dilated, but still there was understanding there somewhere. He was envious, he wanted that understanding too. What was it she understood that he was supposed to have told her? Did she – who obviously thought a sexual relationship was something to strive for – know why he couldn't live up to this part of the popular cultural ideal just as easily as he could wear designer brands?

“I don't want things to change,” he finally whispered.

“Nothing's going to change, hon,” she ensured him, stroking his cheek.

“Yes, it is,” he said, sounding confident in this conclusion; the only thing he actually got out of his last sexual encounter was that sex changes everything, leaving him alone.

“No, Sherlock, it isn’t. I don't care if you're gay. Honestly, I don't. I just wished you'd told me so I wouldn't have made an idiot of myself.”

Victor's recording changing form Corelli to Spohr and something deep inside Sherlock fell into place. Of course he wasn’t heterosexual! That was why he didn’t want to have sex with women. He...he was gay? He tried the theory in his somewhat foggy mind. It fitted, or at least it could. It didn't _not_ fit. 

“I...don't think I knew before,” he said truthfully and confused. 

“Says the man who told me I fell off a horse and broke my wrist when I was in my prepubescent,” she said with a little laugh. It was hard to tell if she didn't believe him or if she was amused by the fact that he was oblivious about things concerning himself.

“That was obvious,” Sherlock said and she laughed again.

“You silly little boy,” she said and held him closer, “And don't worry, it changes nothing. Nothing. I still love you.”

He trusted her when she said she still loved him, but he knew she was wrong when she said nothing would change. His whole world and reality had already shifted there in Nina's arms as he tried to grasp his new identity and this new person he had suddenly become.


	2. Or gay?

* * *

According to popular culture the coming out process was supposed to be hard.

Sherlock had to give popular culture right on that one because it was absolutely exhausting. The reasons listed as to why it would be hard were completely wrong though.

Popular culture stated that the fear (and possibility) of being rejected would be the worst part of the coming out circus, but Sherlock never saw that as a risk. It had, after all, been Nina who pointed it out and Victor was (semi-)openly gay. When he told Tess and Victor they both seemed to have the same epiphany as Nina, as if everything fell into place and they finally figured him out.

Sherlock knew he was supposed to be grateful that his friends accepted him for who he was, but he was more annoyed quite honestly. He didn’t understand _why_ he was annoyed. The more he thought about it, the more he realised it was just _because_ they accepted him for who he was without questioning it. It didn’t sit right with him. If it was so obvious, why hadn’t they seen it before? Not to mention that he couldn’t see why he, the person it concerned the most, didn’t feel as enlightened as the rest. 

The hard part about coming out was therefore not the non-acceptance of his surroundings, it was his own lack of conviction. 

Sherlock stood in front of his bedroom mirror, watching his naked body as if the answer should be written on it. He had no problem with his body, he'd had it all his life and was used to it. Obviously there were better parts and worse parts, but as a whole he liked it, felt comfortable with it and knew he could have done much worse. He even knew that some people desired his body in ways he couldn’t comprehend.

Gay.

It seemed to fit this naked body better than straight. The sexual norm wasn’t for him, that much he was certain of. Just to try it out he had flipped through two dozens of porn magazines with naked women and he had been more anatomically curious about what the female body could do than he had been aroused. Ergo: not straight.

So, gay it was. Or, he was.

Or?

Why couldn't he be as sure as his friends? It was his body after all, it was his sexuality. His homosexuality. Almost to prove a point to himself he grabbed his penis and looked into the mirror while forcing images of a naked Victor – the only other gay person he knew – into his head. The images were fleeing and hard to catch; the idea of picturing any of his friends naked had been unthinkable until just days ago.

Still he came. He always did when he masturbated. It was biology and he knew that biologically he worked the way he was supposed to; his penis responded to external stimuli, got erect and ejaculated. But to get aroused by the thought of Victor naked? Or any man.

Or anyone at all….

He had made a mess. This was the reason he usually did this in the shower. 

Still in the nude he went to get a towel to clean up.

* * *

“Are you all right?” Victor asked one day, pausing in the middle of _Concerto for 2 Violins_. Sherlock continued for two cords before holding up.

“Yes,” Sherlock said as if he didn't understand the question.

“I don't believe you,” Victor said, lowering his violin, “You've missed three notes and now you came in too late. You never do that. If anything, you're early...but you’re never late.”

Sherlock placed his Stradivarius on the desk, contemplating what Victor said. Victor was the only person Sherlock allowed to critic his playing, probably because Victor was the best violinist Sherlock had ever met. Not heard, but met.

“Have you told you family yet?” Victor wondered, looking disturbingly worried; Sherlock had often wondered if Victor had lost loved ones because of his sexuality.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “but I am certain Mycroft has known for years and never bothered telling me.”

“Your family is beyond weird,” Victor smiled, “But what is it, then? Something's off.”

“I don't know, you tell me,” Sherlock shrugged and sat down on the bed.

“No, that's what you do,” Victor smirked and sat down next to him, “I'm a musical prodigy and you figure things out by looking at people.”

“Then why can't I figure this out?” Sherlock asked, looking at Victor in hopes of getting all the right answers.

“I don’t know,” Victor smiled faintly, “Some things are hard to come to terms with. So hard that your mind tells you it's not even there because that's what you want to be true.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock muttered, picking his nails, “How...when did you know?”

“At the very same moment I found out there was such a thing as homosexuals,” Victor sounded embarrassed, as if he knew his answer wasn't helpful at all.

“Wonderful,” Sherlock repeated and got up from the bed. Without another word he picked up the violin, clearly stating that this awkward conversation was over. If his mind wasn't to be trusted anymore, at least he still had Herkules Stradivarius. He felt the smooth wood under his chin and placed the bow onto the strings. It fitted, everything fitted so well. 

Everything except him.

“Why doesn't it fit?” He abruptly asked as Victor did his own preparations to start playing again.

“Why does what not fit where?” Victor wondered confused.

“Me. Why doesn't it fit me? Why is it wrong?” Sherlock felt wild, probably looked it too, and without realising it, he had swung the bow as if he was auditioning for a lead role in The Three Musketeers.

Victor's first reaction was to free Sherlock from the Stradivarius before something terrible happened to it. More careful than if it had been an infant he placed the violin in its case. Then he turned around and hugged Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the warmth from Victor's body; felt the heart beat in his chest and the steady breathing. It was soothing. It was a comfort hug, like the one Nina had given him after she’d figured all this out. Sherlock liked that sort of intimacy and therefore he just stood there, receiving it, letting it do what it was supposed to do: calm him down.

Then he suddenly realised that this closeness with Victor could be misinterpreted – just like Nina had misinterpret the situation on the Persian rug. Being gay just made the physical contact between him and women, or him and straight men, safe; physical contact with another gay man was still threatening. 

He pushed Victor away, looking both panicked and shameful as he did.

“Sherlock,” there was a sting of blame in Victor's voice, but the rest of the man radiated the type of compassion that could only be felt by someone who has gone through the same thing. “It's okay. I'm not coming on to you. I'm just giving you a hug.”

“And Nina and I were just kissing,” Sherlock muttered.

“What?” Victor laughed, “I keep telling you it’s dangerous to smoke that shit.”

“I'm so confused,” Sherlock rubbed his face.

“That's okay too.” It sounded like a promise and Sherlock hoped it was. “Do you have any experience with men at all?”

“I've hugged you,” Sherlock said after a moment, not that he needed it to think about it, but it felt appropriate. 

Victor smiled and took his hand, squeezing it. “Do you want some more?”

If it wasn’t for the fact that Victor suggested this in the same way he’d suggest they watch telly Sherlock would most likely felt uncomfortable. Now he took it into consideration instead.

It was (almost) obvious that Victor had no romantic interest in him, which would make it emotionally safe to take him up on the offer. If nothing else, to see if sex with men triggered a similar response as sex with women did. 

But no, Sherlock shook his head and let go of Victor's hand.

“Sex changes everything,” he said.

“It doesn't have to, but okay,” Victor said and took his violin again, nodding towards Herkules for Sherlock to do the same. “You can take me up on the offer later if you change your mind.”

Sherlock was sure he wouldn't, but produced a smile instead of answering. He picked up the violin and followed Victor back into the melody they had left before.

Afterward, Victor told him that he still was off in his playing, but at least Sherlock felt better. He didn’t know what had he done to deserve such wonderful friends.

* * *

The alley was narrow and smelled like rubbish and vomit. It wasn’t the most romantic setting, but when receiving a random blowjob from a bloke you had just met things like romance weren’t very important. Right now Sherlock couldn't think of any situation he would ever care about romance.

He was as high as the five-storey building he leaned against; his whole body was numb and oversensitive at the same time. He liked that about the gay scene; there were a lot of interesting chemical substances floating around. It was, so far, the only thing he liked about the scene. Tonight he had lost track of what – and how much – he had taken and, even in this fog, he knew it wasn't a good thing. He didn’t feel he had much of a choice though; there was a man with his face pressed against his crotch and he wouldn’t be able to stand if he’d been sober.

For almost two months Sherlock had visited gay bars in the area, trying to get sexual experiences with men without jeopardising a friendship. Until tonight he hadn’t been successful, not due to lack of suggestions but lack of nerves. It was just something about the thought of another man's penis in any of his body's orifices that freaked him out. He had to ask Nina or Tess how women could be so fine with it. Now it was his penis in a wet, warm orifice. It was better, but not good.

The mouth, well, the man, was sloppy and, from what Sherlock could tell, not very good. Why was he touching his balls like that? No one should ever touch his balls like that! Sherlock's arms were too numb to do anything about it, all of him was too numb. It didn't hurt, it just wasn't at all comfortable. Not to mention how very unpleasant the feeling of a tongue against his erection was. Why did he even bother with this, he was fairly certain he wasn't going to come. Too drugged out. At least he could conclude that a sexual encounter with a man was different than one with a woman. Mostly in the way of execution. When it came to emotional responses he was not in a state to tell.

“Oy! Sherlock, what the hell?”

Victor's voice cut through the fog and the unpleasantness. Sherlock turned his head to see Victor stepping over rubbish on his way towards them and the stranger on the ground let go of his penis. 

Finally.

Sherlock smiled in Victor's direction. Victor had come to save him from the man sucking on him.

“Boyfriend?” the man on the ground asked. 

“Yes,” Victor answered, not sounding nearly angry enough to be convincing, “Now off you go...and use a bloody condom next time you're expecting someone to come in your throat, you idiot!”

Sherlock took Victor's face between his hands to be able to focus his eyes. It was hard, but he managed. His Victor, his kind and thoughtful Victor who even thought about the stranger; if Sherlock would have a boyfriend he should be like Victor.

Sherlock kept smiling even though he was pretty sure Victor was upset with him for some reason. He couldn’t understand why; he hadn't cheated on Victor.

“What the hell are you on this time?” Victor forced Sherlock's right eye open with his fingers. It hurt. Why did he do that? Oh, probably checking his pupils. Sherlock wonder how they looked, and more importantly, if Victor could tell anything by just looking. Victor wasn’t all that clever when it came to things like this. Inexperienced.

“I've been looking everywhere for you,” Victor informed, starting to lead Sherlock out of the alley after he had tucked him in and zipped him up. The touch and the closeness felt right, so much more right than everything else had felt to night.

“You saved me,” Sherlock murmured, “You're my knight.”

“You only need saving from yourself right now,” Victor told him as they both almost tripped over a bin.

“I love you,” Sherlock blurred out.

“I know, I love you too,” Victor said in his softest voice, stroking Sherlock's chin and even giving him a small kiss on the lips. A non-threatening kiss. Not like the ones he had shared with the man in the alley.

“Shag me,” Sherlock murmured in Victor's ear.

“No,” Victor said calmly, “We're going to get you home and then I'm going to phone Nina so she can make sure you're not ODing or something.”

“I'm not,” Sherlock assured him. Poor Victor, he just didn’t know anything about things like this.

“Forgive me for not taking your word for it,” Victor flagged down a cab, “And I'm not going to take advantage of you when you're like this.”

“It's not advantage if you do it as a favour,” Sherlock tried to explain as they entered the cab with some difficulty.

Victor didn’t answer, or maybe he did and Sherlock just blacked out. Either way, the next thing he remembered was puking in the shower – of all places – and hearing himself solemnly swear to never do this again.

* * *

There was a black car outside Sherlock's flat. It had been standing there for almost 30 minutes now and Sherlock had been watching it from behind the curtain for at least 17. 

Sherlock knew exactly why the car was there; Mycroft wanted him to come along to visit their mother. His brother, curse him, had a point; he should visit mother, but Sherlock didn't want to. He really, really didn't want to.

It was a battle of stubborn minds and Sherlock was determined to be the more stubborn this time. Sherlock was fairly sure Mycroft could wait forever after seeing him peeping in the window and therefore it was a surprise when his brother stepped out of the car and made his way up to the flat. 

That was an outcome Sherlock had not expected, nor the reward he had wanted for his stubbornness.

The first two times the doorbell rang Sherlock ignored it but the third time he caved; cursing Mycroft as he unlocked the door.

“Please, Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, sounding more annoyed than pleading. Sherlock closed the door again and moved to the sofa.

“I actually thought university would help you mature, not recess you to a five-year-old,” Mycroft said when he entered the flat.

“Speaking of recession, how's the economy coming along?”

“Do try to keep up with recent events, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “The recession was over more than two years ago.”

“Then 'recent' isn’t the correct word, is it?”

“You're behaving like a child.”

“Only because you persist on treating me like one.”

Mycroft gave him a demeaning glare to which Sherlock found no other response than to exhale loudly; his brother had really turned patronising into an art. 

“I don't want to see her, Mycroft,” Sherlock finally admitted in a low, uncharacteristic insecure voice and a tense expression fluttered over Mycroft's face.

“You've made that perfectly clear, but she wants to see you.” 

Sherlock snorted, “Last time she didn’t even recognise me.” 

“Don't take it out on her. It’s not her fault,” Mycroft sighed, but there was still no attempt to negotiate any terms of a visit. Sherlock found that very odd.

Sherlock met Mycroft’s eyes and actually found a hint of sympathy there. He didn’t want sympathy, he just wanted to be left alone and he could only think of one thing to say that would make his brother go away.

“I'm gay,” he said after taking a deep breath. Telling Mycroft made it feel even more unsuitable for him than it already did. It really wasn't right. He felt it. The words combined with the terrible experience he'd had in the alleyway made it all so obviously absurd. Desperate times call for desperate measures though, and popular culture had got a few things right. So maybe Mycroft would be repulsed enough to just disappear...perhaps....

“No, Sherlock, you're not,” Mycroft said with absolute certainty after giving his brother a scrutinising look.

“Why can't you just accept me for who I am?”

“I am the only one who accepts you for who you are,” Mycroft sighed, “But when you're done getting anonymous sex in alleys, can you please come and visit Mummy?”

“It's not going away.”

“Then it will be safe for you to promise me to visit her.”

It felt like a trap. It had to be a trap. Still, it was a way to get Mycroft out of the flat; a quick solution he was sure he’d have to pay for in the future. He didn’t care about the future now.

“I promise,” he muttered.

“See you later, Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded, looking smugger than Sherlock was comfortable with. Sherlock threw a pillow after his brother, hating himself for proving Mycroft right about that five-year-old statement.

He jumped up and rushed to the window, making sure the black car really left and that it contained Mycroft when it did. Somewhere deep inside he knew Mycroft was right, he just knew. Like he supposed everyone else just knew. Unfortunately it was Mycroft who had pointed it out and therefore Sherlock was going to spend the next couple of years trying to prove him wrong just to spite him.


	3. Is it right to feel this way?

* * *

Someone knocked on the bathroom door, or more accurately: someone tried to break the bathroom door. It was Victor, the door-banger had said so when the pounding had still been knocks. Sherlock wasn’t capable to care.

The shower had been running over his face for an hour now. At one point he had played with the thought of drowning himself but it was really hard to do this way. There were so many more efficient ways to commit suicide if that’s what you’re after and Sherlock was pretty sure he wasn’t.

His clothes were lying around him in the shower, fallen where he had undressed. The expensive suit was ruined, maybe the shirt could be saved, and the socks, but compared to the suit it was nothing worth saving. 

The pounding on the door stopped. Sherlock had no idea why, or how it made him feel. He turned up the water temperature, scolding his skin even more. In the back of his mind he reflected on how useless this was, but the back of his mind didn’t control this situation. At all. No part of him had control right now actually.

The door opened and Sherlock turned his head to see why. In the door-way, getting up of her knees, was Nina and behind her were Victor and Tess. Damn Nina and her lock-picking skills. Tess had a phone in her hand and he wondered who she was calling before realising that he didn’t care. Sherlock looked up into the shower head again, closing his eyes. 

Nothing happened. Sherlock imagined his friends were a bit thrown off guard. He almost heard them exchanging looks but he didn’t care about that either. 

A hand reached into the shower and turned off the water. Nina.

A towel was wrapped around him. Tess. 

Sherlock couldn’t make himself open his eyes and look at them. He still knew them by smell alone. Nina smelled like a mixture of the chem. lab and the Persian rug and Tess always smelled like coffee. Always just coffee. Sherlock wonder what her real smell was.

Without warning, Sherlock collapsed in Tess’ arms, making both of them crash into the wall. Tess whimpered, Nina and Victor screamed. Sherlock started to cry. Finally. He had trouble understanding why it felt like such a relief to cry. 

The women helped him out of the bathroom and tended to him in silence; Tess dried him and helped him into his robe while Nina looked him over physically. Sherlock let them. He knew what Nina was looking for and he loved them for their care. He didn’t look at them; still with tears running down his cheeks his eyes were locked at Victor who devastated sat on the floor and stared right back at him.

“Sherlock,” Nina whispered, gently touching his cheek to make him look at her, “Hon…oh hon….”

Sherlock could see the same devastation in Nina’s eyes that he saw in Victor’s. Probably in Tess’ as well, but she had murmured something about tea and disappeared. He knew what they saw when they looked at him, he knew perfectly well what this all looked like and he felt the need to correct them. He always felt the need to correct them when they were wrong. This time more to still their worry than to set them straight.

But he couldn’t. 

There was no way he could explain how the act of consensual sex had made him react as a first class rape victim. They would never understand because he couldn’t even start to grasp what was wrong with him. He had been the one initiating it; he had really thought he wanted it. Apparently he’d been wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured resting his forehead against Nina’s shoulder. He didn’t want to worry them. How had they even known? Was it Victor? Had Victor saved him again? Sherlock had no recollection of that and if Victor had saved him, then Victor should know that this wasn’t rape.

“It’s not your fault, luv,” Nina whispered back, pressing a soft kiss at his temple, “Nothing of this is your fault. It’s going to be okay, it’s not your fault.”

Sherlock shook his head. She didn’t know how wrong she was; it was entirely his fault. Something was messed up. _He_ was messed up. This couldn’t be how it was supposed to be. He wanted to tell her that, but when he looked up he caught a glimpse of Victor again who had turned ash grey. It made Sherlock feel sick, but Tess came back with the tea which probably saved him from throwing up. She got an appreciative look, because it was the only thing he could manage.

Tess sat down next to him, rubbing soft circles on his back, and Nina took his free hand. Sherlock didn’t think he would ever be this close to a group of people again. Still he couldn’t bring himself to ease their pain by telling them that he – technically – hadn’t been raped.

* * *

Sherlock’s friends tip-toed around him for weeks. They made sure he wasn’t alone, tried their hardest to get along (Victor and Tess that was), going out of their way to make him feel safe. It just made him feel ashamed. Ashamed for what he made them believe, ashamed of how he had reacted. Just ashamed in general. It was not a good feeling at all.

One day – 41 days after “the incident” – Tess took him to a small church close to where she lived. Maybe a chapel was more accurate, but Tess called it a church and therefore Sherlock did the same. Sherlock hadn’t been in a church since he’d been forced to go through the ritual of confirming a Christian faith he’d never had. He just indulged Tess in this as a way to feel less ashamed for not telling her the truth.

“Tell me again, why are we here?” Sherlock asked when they walked in.

“I want you to meet some of my friends,” Tess repeated the reason she had given him before. It made no sense; Tess wasn’t the kind of person who would have friends in the church. From what Sherlock had deduced, all of his friends were just as pronounced atheists as he was. 

“Rainy!” 

A woman, mid-30s, greeted them with a big smile as they walked over to the group of twelve women standing round a table with cookies and beverages. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t figure this out; the group’s age span reached from late teens to early pensioners and there was a good mix of ethnicity and social classes. Judging by their necklaces alone, four of the women belonged to other faiths than the one of this church; if he took the women as a whole in consideration only two of them were practicing Christians.

“I’ve told you to call me Flower,” Tess said with a smile, hugging the woman who had greeted them.

“Like the skunk in Bambi,” the woman replied in a way that told Sherlock this was a running gag between the women. Odd.

“This is the boy I’ve been telling you about, the one who calls me Tess,” Tess introduced Sherlock to the group of women who all looked very curiously at him. 

“Hello,” Sherlock said, raising his hand in a small wave. 

“I thought he might benefit from listening,” Tess said, talking as if he couldn’t speak for himself. It annoyed him, but he wasn’t sure what this was, so observing was the best option.

“Of course,” an elderly lady said, showing all of them, including Sherlock, to a table. “How much have you told your friend Rainflower?”

“Nothing really,” Tess gave Sherlock a smirk, “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t have agreed to come if I had.”

“Maybe you’d start us off, then?” 

Tess nodded with a smile, taking Sherlock’s hand. For a moment she looked at Sherlock with a mix of sympathy and an insecurity he had never seen in her.

“Sherlock, this is a group for rape survivors,” she explained, squeezing his hand, “We meet here once, maybe twice a month. We’re about thirty people who come on irregular basis to help each other work through and process it.”

“Oh….” Sherlock’s mouth remained opened. He felt so ignorant and self-centred, how could he have missed that Tess had been raped? Especially during these last weeks, how could he not have seen it? “Tess, I’m sorry.”

“We don’t pity each other here,” Tess said with an encouraging smile, “We’ve all gone through it, we’re in the same boat. So there is no need for being sorry.”

Sherlock kept staring at her. He had forced her to throw up pills once by sticking his hands down her throat, but this was too much. He wanted to run away but Tess’ grip on his hand made it perfectly clear that he needed to stay. Not for his sake but for hers. 

Sherlock powered through two hours of tears and rape stories; starting with Tess who had been raped repeatedly by a man she referred to as “uncle” (but who she had no relation to) and who had lived in her parents’ collective. Sherlock vowed that if he ever got the opportunity – and he would make sure he did – he would see to that this uncle of hers had an accident called castration. With dull scissors.

Leaving the church/chapel/whatever Sherlock felt worse than he had done in his entire life. Listening to the women telling their stories had been more traumatising than the incident that had made him stand in the shower for an hour. That had just been sex, what these women had described was evil. Pure evil. It was a wonder these women didn’t hate all men. He was pretty sure he hated his entire gender just by hearing about what the women had gone through.

Participating in the meeting, pretending he belonged there, that he actually knew what they had talked about? He hated himself for it, every step of the way home to the shower. He stayed in the shower for two and a half hours. This time no one picked the lock, no one tried to break down the door. This time he was all alone with the thoughts and sense memories of another man’s penis inside him. It hadn’t been rape, it had been consensual sex, but he still felt so extremely violated and the little trip with Tess had made him feel like a liar. There were people out there with real traumas, people like Tess, he had no right to claim any sympathy. 

He was just screwed up.

* * *

Sherlock was balancing his bow on the tip of his index finger while listening to Victor playing Louis Spohr's _Violin Concerto No 7_. It was beautiful as always even though it wasn’t Sherlock’s favourite Spohr. He loved listening to Victor when he played, but today it sounded sad. Not just today, it had sounded sad for weeks and Sherlock was fairly sure he knew why.

That’s what finally did it. He couldn’t let his incapability to tell the truth ruin the musical wonder that was Victor. He wouldn’t forgive himself for that. The world wouldn’t forgive him.

“Victor,” Sherlock said, gently placing the bow beside him but his friend didn’t seem to hear him and he raised his voice, “Victor!”

Victor held up, he was almost done with the piece and with an exchange of looks Sherlock let him finish. It sounded just as sad, but Victor picked up the melody as if he’d never stopped. He was wonderful. When he was done he lowered the instrument and waited for Sherlock to say whatever was so important that it had been necessary to interrupt his playing.

Victor was such a snob sometimes. Sherlock loved it.

“I don’t know what you think” – a lie, Sherlock knew perfectly well what Victor thought – “but Anton never raped me.”

It looked like at least five stone was lifted off Victor’s shoulder. The worry and concern were still present, but Sherlock could see how relieved he became. Oh god, Sherlock had completely forgotten that Anton was Victor’s friend. Victor had even been the one introducing them. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Poor Victor, this must have put him through hell. 

Damn it! Why was he always so self-absorbed? First Tess and now Victor, he didn’t even want to think what he had done to Nina in his ignorance.

“What happened, then?” Victor moved Sherlock’s bow and sat down, “Anton called me that night and said you’d run off. And when I came to your place you were locked in the shower, not answering.”

So that’s how Victor had known! It made sense. Good to straighten that out even if it shouldn’t be the main concern right now.

“We had sex, in his bed,” Sherlock started – it had been a long time since he had tried to have sex in a bed actually. Since coming out it had mostly been unpleasant blowjobs in bathroom stalls, “He….I asked him to…well…penetrate me.” 

It felt like a too clinical word to describe the messy nastiness that the experience had been. It was accurate, but it didn’t seem like the word a friend used when he told the story of a sexual encounter. In Sherlock’s defence, he didn’t have many experiences to talk about and not many friends to tell them to.

“Damn it hurt,” Sherlock didn’t even mind that it came out in a sob, but he did place one hand over his eyes following it up with a sigh, “and it was just wrong. It felt….”

“Did you tell him to stop?” Victor asked.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted, lowering his hand and looking at Victor completely guilt struck, “You saw me that night; I was high as a bloody tourist in Amsterdam!”

Victor failed to suppress a laugh, “Yeah, Nina told me that, but it…it’s not supposed to matter, you know.”

“It _does_ matter,” Sherlock felt frustrated, “If I don’t remember then I can’t know!”

“Can’t know what?” Victor looked lost – he was not the only one, “If you feel sexually assaulted then that’s all you need to know.”

“No it’s not. It’s…. I….”Sherlock sighed, wishing he’d never started this conversation, and reached for his violin before getting up. “Can’t…can’t we just play?”

Victor nodded. “ _In the Hall of the Mountain King_?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, he just had to. He didn’t protest though and as soon as Victor stared to play Sherlock noticed that his playing wasn’t as sad as before. 

That was…that was good.

* * *

Sherlock stared at white powder in front of him. It had been in a small plastic bag under his mattress for almost three weeks now, just lying there, keeping him up as if it had been a pea and he’d been a princess.

He couldn’t remember ever hesitating before trying the different substances he and Nina had got their hands on. He really thought the step from the Persian-rug-experiments to cocaine would be smaller. Easier to take. 

Maybe school drug-programs had got to him somehow? Cocaine was a real drug, a real narcotic. A destroying-lives-and-overdosing-on kind of drug. It wasn’t a getting-giggling-high-with-a-friend-on-a-Thursday kind of drug. 

The logical part of his brain, the scared part, kept telling him that the small pile of powder wasn’t a permanent solution. It told him, repeatedly, how addictive it was (it wasn’t just propaganda, he knew that) and how easy it was to overdose even the first time. 

At least he was sure it was pure. Having taken most of the chemistry courses the university offered made the testing of cocaine purity a simple task. It decreased the risk of overdosing; the calculation of how much he needed wasn’t hard. 

Still. 

The risk was there.

It was cocaine.

He played one of Victor’s recording; Victor would probably kill him if he knew what he used his music for. Hopefully he’d never find out. 

His hand trembled when he started to prepare the powder; it was easier to think about it as powder and not as cocaine. Maybe that was a sign to leave it be? His brain definitely had a point. The only problem was that logic had no control over emotions whatsoever. Because logic had no feelings. Logic was the opposite of feelings. 

He loved logic. Emotions and feelings were complicated and they’d started to take over his whole being. They were everywhere. Confusion, shame, hurt, uncertainty, awkwardness, embarrassment….He just wanted to know who he was. Who he was and why he wasn’t like everyone else. 

When had he started to wish to be like everybody else? He loathed almost everyone else; they were all stupid and uninteresting. He was better than them. He was. This shouldn’t bother him; it was just sex and sex was not important. 

He closed his eyes and tried to block out the thoughts. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t sex at all, because sex wasn’t important. It was the inability to fit in. _His_ inability to fit in. His inability to belong. 

He was used to not fitting in, not belonging. He had done that most of his life, but he had always secretly hoped that when he grew up it would sort itself out. That he would sort himself out. Now he knew it wouldn’t happen; he would never share what other people shared. And he had really started to fear the answer to why that was.

There were no words in the English language to explain how grateful he was that he’d never tried to have sex with the people he really cared about. Because sex messed everything up. 

It messed him up.

And left him empty.

Alone.

He leaned down over the table, careful not to breathe on the cocaine. He closed his eyes and inhaled through one nostril, following the line as well as he could. 

Sherlock gasped. It hurt. It burned. It…it made his eyes tear up, but he leaned back on the sofa, let his head hit the wall and let the feeling of chemically enhanced happiness fill him. He was in no way a novice to the concept, but the intensity made a wide smile spread over his face. For the first time in over six months he felt no shame, no regret, no embarrassment, no demands.

He knew it was a quick fix, that it wouldn’t last. The logical part of his brain had lost all its right to vote, to have an opinion, because now he was – finally! – at peace. If only for a short while.

* * *

Sherlock never graduated.

It didn’t surprise anyone.

With some paperwork and an administration hazard, he would have been able to scrape up to a master in chemistry (maybe even a bachelor in biology) but he didn’t see the point. It was the knowledge he wanted, not the degree.

He stayed at university for six years until the cocaine habit made it impossible for him to keep up the appearance of actually doing something. For three of those years he was openly gay, an arrangement that served many purposes: Mycroft never bothered him about visiting their mother and most of the human population refrained from approaching him in a sexual way. Having Mycroft stay out of his business was almost worth being wrong, but just almost. The nagging feeling of resentment and self-doubt was eliminated with the help of cocaine. Or whatever was available. 

Victor dropped out during Sherlock’s fourth year after the self-proclaimed music prodigy figured out that he really didn’t need a teaching license; he was never going to work as a teacher anyway. Soon afterwards they lost contact since Victor had no idea how to deal with Sherlock’s increasing drug use and in the end Sherlock decided it was kinder to just stop calling. 

Sherlock didn’t mind losing Victor due to cocaine.

Nina, a lot more drug liberal than Victor, left university – and the United Kingdom – shortly after Victor to pursue a PhD in Canada. Before she left she made an attempt to get Sherlock to stop using, but when it didn’t work she washed her hands and moved. For almost a year she called him every Tuesday. Then he lost his phone and never bothered giving her his new number.

Sherlock didn’t know he lost Nina due to cocaine.

Tess stayed put during all Sherlock’s university years. Her study plan was almost as messy and incomplete as his, but at least she saw the point of putting black on white that she had a master’s degree in industrial management – for the life of him Sherlock couldn’t see the use of a degree like that. She stopped taking him to the group for rape survivors after his third visit and when he finally got kicked out of university she let him stay at her place. He came and went as he pleased until one day when he couldn’t to find his way back.

Tess thought Sherlock had died due to cocaine.


	4. Will I be happy one day?

* * *

Third time’s the charm. That’s what everyone kept saying. 

Like the popular culture of yore.

This was the third time Mycroft had admitted Sherlock to a clinic. To this clinic. Sherlock wasn’t completely sure it was legal to force someone into rehab, but it was a long time since technicalities of the law had seemed to bother his brother.

Sherlock knew the drill by now: a black car picked him up from a street corner – whether he liked it or not – he was driven out to the countryside and left at a clinic where people knew him without introductions. There he was forced into withdrawal and then, as soon as he was well enough, he escaped. So far, he hadn’t seen a glimpse of his brother, but there was no doubt who was behind it. It had Mycroft Holmes and his nosiness written all over it.

Sherlock had no reason believing anything would be different this time (no matter what the proverbial statistics said) and he had been planning his escape since the black car had pulled up next to him. It was going to be a real spectacle. Hallucinating and puking his guts out for almost three days didn’t change his plan or his determination.

Seeing Mycroft entering his room on the fifth day of captivity shook him a bit though.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft said and the door locked behind him.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock snorted, but forced himself to sit up on the bed, “Not that I wouldn’t have loved seeing you wipe my sick off the floor, but I’m afraid you’re too late for that.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and, after what looked like careful deliberation, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“This is getting tedious, Sherlock. It’s a terrible waste of time.” 

“I know. Please stop.”

“You first.”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock turned away from him, “Please leave, I have an escape to plan.”

“Yes, you do,” Mycroft nodded in confirmation but didn’t get up, “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock had at least four lippy responses on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason he swallowed them all down. He didn’t dare looking at his brother because something in his voice had been so uncharacteristically human and caring. It was the voice Sherlock knew Mycroft used when he talked to their mother.

“You can’t send me away,” he finally said, his voice cracking when he added, “I’m not mother.”

“I didn’t send her away.” There was a sting of anger spurred from guilt in that statement, but after a short pause Mycroft continued in his normal, calm manner, “And you’re not like mother.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock whispered and looked down on his hands. He saw Mycroft nodding in the corner of his eye, “Then what’s wrong with me?”

“You are a stubborn idiot who don’t know what’s best for you; you don’t have any goals in life and therefore you don’t have any motivation whatsoever. You behave like a child and think that you are better than everyone just because you are more intelligent than most. Not to mention that you have no idea how to treat the ones who care about you.” Mycroft shrugged as if he couldn’t think of anything else “Other than that, and your reluctance to get clean, there is _nothing_ wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me?” Sherlock stared at him. 

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Mycroft emphasised every word. “Why do you think there would be?”

“Because I….” Sherlock hesitated and looked down on his hands again. “I don’t like sex.”

“Then don’t have it.”

“Biologically speaking, I should want to reproduce. This is not normal to-”

“We are almost 7 billion people in the world.” Mycroft interrupted, “Biologically speaking, as a race, we need more people who are not interested in spreading their genes. ‘Not normal’ doesn’t equal ‘wrong’. Normal is just a word for the denominators that describes the vast majority of people.”

“Normal is dull.” Sherlock muttered.

“Quite,” Mycroft said with the resemblance of a smile. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

“Why haven’t you told me before?”

“I honestly thought you knew,” Mycroft smiled ruefully at this misconception and got to his feet. “Well, I should get going. Don’t want to keep you from flight preparations.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Before I leave though,” Mycroft said as he knocked on the door to be let out, “You do remember that if you stay here until they discharge you there will be a flat waiting for you, don’t you?”

Sherlock just wiggled his fingers to wave him off. Mycroft left without as much as a change in facial expression. Sherlock found that very impressive, personally he would never been able to leave without at least rolling his eyes.

He fell back on the bed and stared at the same spot in the ceiling he had been looking at when Mycroft had arrived. The longer he lay there, the more he started to doubt what Mycroft had said. 

He needed some research, because he couldn’t take Mycroft’s word for it. No matter how much he wanted him to be right this time. It was a strange feeling wishing that Mycroft was right, that it wasn’t anything wrong with him and that it was all right not wanting to have sex.

He had a lot to think about and he wasn’t stubborn enough to not see that it was easier to think when you were clean, sober and warm than when you were high, drunk and cold. He was going to take Mycroft up on the flat-offer.

When he had made that decision he closed his eyes and whispered over and over again: “There is nothing wrong with me.”

* * *

Asexual.

There was a word for it.

There was a word for him.

Why hadn’t he heard it before? It was a simple word. So etymologically simple. He should have thought of it, it followed the same pattern as every other sexual orientation. At least all sexualities accepted by society. He was very satisfied that the sexuality that fitted him didn’t end with “–philia”. 

Sherlock hadn’t felt this at ease for years, not since before he’d had sex with Annie Rees. That was a lifetime ago. It was three friendships ago – four if you counted Annie Rees. It was a cocaine addiction and a university education ago.

He finally got it right. He got it right! The feeling was more satisfying than cocaine had ever been. 

He and 70 million other people were biologically programmed to not desire sex. 70 million people. That’s a lot of people. Not compared to the roughly 6.93 billion sexual people in the world, but it was a hell of a lot more than just him.

Asexual.

He had a label. Finally. It scared him a bit how much he liked being able to put himself into a category. It didn’t ruin the feeling though; the feeling of finally figuring it out. The feeling of figuring himself out. 

So what should he do now? 

Popular culture had never informed him about the coming out process for asexuals. Actually, popular culture had never told him that asexuality existed. Everything in popular culture was just sex, sex, sex, sex. Maybe he should just stop listening to popular culture all together? It had a very low accuracy rate anyway and he had never liked what it pretended to stand for.

Sherlock felt that he wanted to come out, to share this brilliant news with someone. Then he thought about it and realised that he had already come out once. He had made a big deal about being homosexual and he had tried very hard to be it too, to convince himself and his surroundings that what he said was true. If he came out again as something else there was a great risk that no one would believe him. Perhaps they’d all think he just wanted the attention.

This far into his reasoning Sherlock had another realisation: when he thought he was gay he’d had three friends to come out to, three people who cared. Now he had no one.

It was a devastating insight. 

For the first time Sherlock saw what his cocaine addiction had cost him. What it had really cost him. The euphoria he felt subsided and an unfamiliar loneliness filled him instead. He was all alone. He had no one to share good news with, no one who cared about him. Except for Mycroft and Sherlock wasn’t ready to talk to him again.

The rest of the evening, and the following night, Sherlock sat on the floor of the flat Mycroft had arranged for him, fighting with every cell in his body not to contact his old dealer.

* * *

Victor had been the easiest to find; one quick Google search and Sherlock had found two different pages selling tickets to concerts he was giving. Nina’s doctoral thesis had been just as easy to find (and Sherlock had loved every word of it, it was amazing!) Nina herself had been more difficult because she had married in Canada and moved to the United States. Tess seemed to have disappeared completely. At least if you asked your various free search tools on the internet. 

He wrote an e-mail to Nina; a short one, apologising for everything he’d done, congratulating her on her PhD and telling her that he was clean now. He wrote nothing about his newly discovered sexuality; it wasn’t as important as all the other things he wanted her to know.

Just before pressing send he added a post scriptum asking if she knew where he could find Tess.

After that act of bravery he tried booking a ticket to Victor’s next solo performance. The stakes were higher because he would have to get dressed up and interact with other people. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Not to mention that he hadn’t see Victor since choosing cocaine over their friendship. 

It was hard to get properly dressed on Sherlock’s budget and it was even harder to get a good seat at the concert. But beggars cannot be choosers and he put on the only suit he could afford without asking Mycroft for more money and settled on one of the cheapest tickets.

He didn’t want to think about it, but he was well aware that it could end in disaster.

When the curtains went up and Victor walked out on stage none of it mattered though. Sherlock got goose bumps just by watching Victor put the bow onto the strings. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure Victor closed his eyes for a short moment before starting to play. He had always done that.

The music was…amazing? brilliant? wonderful? divine? The music was Victor. Sherlock couldn’t find any other way to describe it. Victor sounded so calm, so at peace. So happy. Sherlock never wanted it to end; he could sit there and listen for the rest of his life. 

At least that’s what he thought until Victor played a piece by Corelli. When hearing the familiar melody Sherlock remembered the last time he had heard Victor play: he had been shooting up in Tess’ flat, listening to the tape recording he always had listened to when doing drugs.

The memory was overwhelming; he could almost feel the needle puncturing his skin, reaching his vein. He clenched his hands and closed his eyes, but the association between this music piece and cocaine was too strong. As soon as the music ended (and applauses filled the hall) Sherlock left. 

He waited outside the entrance where Victor was most likely to exit, working through half a package of cigarettes in the process. In an attempt to erase the memory of the melody, Sherlock tried to remember the last time he had played with Victor. He couldn’t, he had probably been high. Actually, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had played the violin at all.

Sherlock froze.

His violin.

Herkules Stradivarius.

His perfect, beautiful violin, that always forgave his tiny mistakes and his haste. He had lost him and the panic caused Sherlock to do something stupid and regretful: he texted Mycroft.

_Do you know where Herkules is?  
SH_

The answer came fast.

_If you are referring to your violin, yes.  
MH_

It was a huge relief; the lost-and-found Stradivarius had not been lost again due to his stupidity.

Victor came out before Sherlock had the time to type up an answer. Victor wasn’t alone though, at his arm he had a handsome, Indian man. They looked happy, they looked in love. Even in the streetlight Sherlock thought he saw a ring on Victor’s finger. He looked blissful but tired; Sherlock could imagine it being exhausting to play for such a long time. 

They kissed. The other man took the violin case from Victor and they walked towards the car park. Sherlock didn’t make his presence known. He didn’t want to intrude, ruin their moment, one of many moments, he supposed. 

Suddenly Sherlock regretted not taking Victor up on the offer on gaining some sexual experience with a man; perhaps then he’d be the man on Victor’s arm and not the one alone in the shadows. Sherlock dismissed that thought, if he’d had sex with Victor it would most likely have ended their friendship more than a year earlier.

It didn’t change the fact that he felt completely alone right now. Outside the bubble that was university people’s primary relationship didn’t consist of friendships; out in the real world people’s primary relationship always seemed focused on a partner. A sexual partner. 

And he couldn’t be that. He couldn’t do that.

He lit another cigarette and started the long walk home. When he finally closed the door to his flat he was proud of himself for not taking a detour to acquire cocaine. At least he pretended that it was his willpower and not his lack of money that kept him from doing so.

To be sure he didn’t do anything stupid he turned off his mobile and went to the kitchen to make tea. It wasn’t even close to what he wanted right now, but he reminded himself that tea was better than cocaine. Tea didn’t ruin relationships. Neither did cigarettes, but he was out of those.

The first thing he saw when he entered the kitchen was the violin case on the table. It was a beautiful case. It wasn’t his old one, but his name was printed on it. He traced the writing with his finger and looked around the room for other signs of Mycroft’s visit but didn’t find anything out of place. It was annoying and impressive at the same time.

He opened the case and there he was, his Herkules Stradivarius. His beautiful, beautiful violin. 

And a note in Mycroft’s handwriting.

_There is nothing wrong with you._

Sherlock shook his head and contemplated crumpling the note to a ball but placed it next to the case instead. He ran his fingers over the strings and the cool, slightly discoloured wood and he smiled. Right now it didn’t matter that his old friends had moved on with their lives, he could find meaning in his life in other places. Whatever happened, he would always be Herkules’ primary relationship. 

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said in a low voice and went to put on the kettle.

* * *

He received an e-mail from Nina two days later; she sounded happy to hear from him and promised to keep in touch. She asked that maybe, perhaps she could call sometime if he gave her a number. She hadn’t heard from Tess in years and even though it was a disappointment Sherlock felt encouraged learning that even non-addicts lost contact with friends.

It was sad, but it made him feel better.

And he gave Nina his number.


	5. Everything must be unsteady on the first go-round

* * *

”I’m not his date.” 

It was the second time since they’d entered the restaurant – the third time in total – John had tried to make it perfectly clear to bystanders that they weren’t an item. Sherlock hadn’t decided if he was amused or disturbed by the doctor’s discomfort with being presumed to be gay. Not that he cared right now; he had a serial killer to chase down, that trumped everything. To be honest, Sherlock couldn’t think of a time when he would care about John’s possible struggle to fit into the hetero normative society.

“You may as well eat, we might have a long wait,” Sherlock offered without taking his eyes off the road outside. 

Angelo came with the candle. How cute. Sherlock liked the candle; it did indeed make it more romantic. Date or not.

“People don’t have archenemies.” John said halfway through his meal, breaking the silence that had settled just after the food arrived.

“Hn?” Sherlock had been watching 22 Northumberland Street so intensely he had almost forgotten John’s presence, “I’m sorry?”

“In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

“Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.” Sherlock wondered if he’d actually called Mycroft his archenemy or if that was just implied. He didn’t actually think of his brother that way, but he couldn’t deny it was a suitable description.

“So who did I meet?”

“What do real people have then, in their real lives?” Sherlock indulged in the conversation but tried to lead it away from his brother. He didn’t feel Mycroft was a good topic for dinner conversation but getting pulled away ‘Mycroft Style’ must be quite overwhelming if you weren’t used to it.

At least John hadn’t ended up at rehab.

“Friends?” John tried and Sherlock wondered if that was a synonym to ‘archenemy’ in the dictionary of John Watson, “People they know, people they like, people they don’t like. Girlfriends, boyfriends….”

“As I was saying – dull.” 

“So you don’t have a girlfriend then?”

“Girlfriend? No. Not really my area.” Not that he had reconsidered it since Annie Rees, but still, not his area. People in general had turned out to not be his area.

“Oh, right. D’you have a boyfriend?” John went on with the painfully obvious second alternative, but quickly added, “Which is fine by the way.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“So you’ve got a boyfriend?” 

“No.” He knew it came out a bit harsh, but it rubbed him the wrong way that questions about partnerships came so early in the getting-to-know-someone process. 

“All right. Okay.” John nodded, “You’re unattached, just like me. Fine. Good.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, not really sure of what was happening right now. He had though John was straight – or at least that’s what John wanted everyone to think. Perhaps the doctor was overcompensating? Sherlock remembered only too well what that was like, trying to convince both the world and himself of a sexual orientation that wasn’t his. It had been exhausting and he could sympathise with that, he really could, be he had to nip this in the bud before it turned into something he didn’t want it to be. 

“John…ehm,” Sherlock took a breath, he had given this speech before – to Molly – he could do it again, “I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I’m flattered by your interest I’m really not looking for anything…”

“No. No…I’m, I’m not asking, no.” John sounded so definite, obviously not at all comfortable being assumed to be gay, “I’m just saying: it’s all fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock felt a bit unsure, and even taken, by this sincere assurance, “Thank you.”

Before the conversation could get any more uncomfortable for either of them a taxi stopped outside 22 Northumberland Street and they were off.

It wasn’t until later Sherlock realised that the way he had left the conversation at Angelo’s probably gave John the impression that he was gay. It didn’t really matter, as he by then had deduced that John was very much straight and therefore free to believe whatever he wanted.

* * *

Sherlock found living with John fascinating. Hm, no, fascinating wasn’t the right word, but it was something similar to it. It was a long time since anyone had been able to stand his company for such an extended period of time. Sure, John needed him to be able to live in central London, but John’s habit of lingering in the sitting room, to do all the shopping and to just spontaneously make tea without Sherlock even asking, made Sherlock certain that it wasn’t just because of economic reasons John stayed. 

Not to mention that John time and time again risked his life in Sherlock’s company.

It had been years since last time he experienced it – and this wasn’t at all as it had been back then – but Sherlock was still pretty sure this constituted a friendship. It was hard to not see parallels between John and the three friends he had once had. John smelled of tea almost as often as Tess had smelled of coffee; he sometimes let Sherlock take hair and nail-clippings for experiments (not nearly as often as Nina though); and once every blue moon he stayed up all night while Sherlock played the violin. 

Fortunately for everyone, John never played duets with him like Victor had.

Obviously John wouldn’t get high with him and they never cuddled in front of the telly. They never hugged; actually they barely touched each other. It was, over all, a very heterosexual male friendship, Sherlock concluded. Sherlock didn’t press it, company and platonic partnership was far better than being alone or in a sexual relationship.

Sherlock had no hopes of making John stay forever; John had early on started his search for a real primary relationship. It wasn’t the end of the world, Sherlock had come to terms with the idea of a life alone (and he did have Herkules and the skull), but he was determined to do the best of the situation as long as it lasted. 

He really liked John and John’s company, a lot of it based on how non-threatening it was. That was probably why Sherlock tried his best to adapt, but there had been so many years since he’d had to consider anyone other than himself and he seemed to fail miserably. In all honesty, he hadn’t been so considerate with himself either over the years. 

Sherlock still didn’t know if it was amusing or insulting (or perhaps both?) that John kept denying every hint of anything more than a platonic relationship between them. Homosexual sister or not, Sherlock believed John had a touch of homophobia when it came to gay men. He often found himself wondering if he would have been as comfortable coming out to John as he’d been coming out to Victor and Tess.

At least he was comfortable enough with John assuming his was gay to not to correct it. That said something.

Or did it say it all?

* * *

John cleared his throat for the nth time. 

In the beginning Sherlock had counted how many throat-clearings it would take before John gathered the courage to say what was on his mind, but somewhere in the early double digits he’d lost track. Sure, he could indulge John and just ask him what he wanted, but it had been a slow week and this was more fun.

“Sherlock,” John finally said, clearing his throat one last time. Good god, he should have that checked! Surely Sarah could give him a physical. Oh, that’s what this was about. Sarah. Of course. Sherlock turned away from the computer and looked at John.

“Yes?”

“Err….Yeah, I was wondering if ehm….” John blushed. Sherlock found this more entertaining than trolling Wikipedia, “Sarah has water damage in her bathroom and she needs a place to stay for a couple of days and…so…yeah….Would it be okay if she stays here?”

“Do I have to do anything?” Sherlock wondered suspiciously.

“No, nothing at all,” John answered very quickly, too quickly, “Perhaps not leave any souvenirs from Bart’s lying around….”

“She’s a doctor. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”

“I’m a doctor and I still prefer to not find savaged limbs in my kitchen,” John said calmly, “Please, Sherlock?”

“Yes. Yes, I know,” Sherlock sighed, “You want to ‘get it on’ with Sarah, or how was it you phrased it?” 

“Something like that,” John smiled sheepishly, “And you know, if you ever want to…er…bring someone home…it’s fine with me.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. It doesn’t interest me.”

“I know, I know, you’re married to your work. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have casual… encounters. At times.”

Sherlock straightened his back and looked at John with narrowed eyes, trying to figure out what he was suggesting. Aside from the conversation at Angelo’s their first night, the topic of sex and sexuality hadn’t come up. That probably meant John still had his mind set on Sherlock being gay and that he wasn’t suggesting random sex with women and now he tried to be open-minded by allowing gay sex to happen in their flat. 

How magnanimous of him.

“That’s exactly what I’m not interested in,” Sherlock said after dragging the silence out to the point of awkwardness.

“That’s what you’re not interested in? You’re not interested in casual sex?” John repeated to be sure he had got it right.

“Or any other kind,” Sherlock specified.

“You’re not interested in any kind of sex?”

“What are you? A parrot?” Sherlock snapped and didn’t understand why he became so tense. “There’s not going to be any ‘casual encounters’. At least not on my part, you can feel free to do…whatever it is you like.”

“Sorry…I’m sorry….” John sounded insecure. Sherlock found it only fair. This whole thing made him feel very insecure as well.

He turned back to the computer, for some reason feeling angry and upset. He was pretty sure he wasn’t allowed to feel either. Not yet, he concluded, John hadn’t been an arse yet, he had just failed to understand. And John tried to teach him that it wasn’t all right to be angry at people just because they were slow.

Not to mention that it was mainly Sherlock’s fault that John held the assumptions he did since he hadn’t bothered correcting him – or anyone else for that matter. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to be angry or hurt. Yet.

The anger was probably just insecurity. Sherlock found it strange how vulnerable he felt and wonder, as so often before, why was sexuality such a loaded question. A knot formed in his stomach when he realised what he had to do.

“John, I’m asexual.” Sherlock lifted his eyes just enough from the screen to see John’s stumped expression.

“Oh,” John said, licking his lip in the way he always did when he wasn’t 100 % sure how to proceed. “I…ehm. I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.” 

“Most people don’t.”

“So….” John made a gesture with his hands, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

“I don’t experience sexual attraction, to anyone or anything.” Sherlock had to force himself to not look away. He could almost see how hard John was thinking and decided to wait it out. John wasn’t stupid. At least not as stupid as most parts of humanity.

“ _Oh_ ,” John blinked, still looking a bit puzzled, but at least he smiled now. “That’s…. I see. I…think.”

“You can call Sarah and tell her she can sleep over for the duration of the reparation,” Sherlock said since he wasn’t sure how to continue this discussion. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea of having Sarah here, but he supposed he owed her something after the incident at the Chinese circus.

Sherlock looked back at the computer to really show that this conversation was over. John walked to the kitchen and tried to hide the conversation he had with Sarah by putting on tea.

“So….” John came back with a mug of tea in each hand, putting one right next to Sherlock, “Highly functional asexual sociopathic consulting detective?”

“We can’t all be blogging heterosexual former army doctors.”

“No, I suppose not,” John said with a smile, “Sarah comes at seven. Please move the ears before then?”

“To any place in particular?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, tasting the tea. Good tea. 

“Preferably the bin, but I’ll settle for a closed container in the fridge,” John said and turned on the telly.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, was that it? Coming out as asexual wasn’t even close to what popular culture had told him about coming out as homosexual. For him, coming out as gay had been the same as coming out as asexual though. The epiphany had been replaced with a slight confusion, but the acceptance seemed to be the same.

He was grateful; John seemed to have been sincere when he’d said that it was all fine. He would really miss John when he moved on with his life.

* * *

“Who gave you your diagnosis?”

That was something not even Sherlock could ignore. Well, he probably could, but it was hard to successfully cross link collagen in the kitchen so that strange question was allowed to disturb him.

“Which one?” Sherlock wondered, pulling of his gloves with a snap. It hurt.

“There are lots of them?” John said with a faint smile.

“You’ve given me at least seven since you moved in and just one of them was physiological,” Sherlock reminded him. “How many others do you think have given me similar ones?”

“Plenty, I suppose,” John said with the same faint smile.

“So which one in particular?”

“The ‘highly functional sociopath’ one.”

“Oh.” Sherlock shrugged. “That would be me.”

“Err…you?” John sounded confused -- Sherlock had come to really enjoy making him confused.“You diagnosed yourself as a sociopath?”

“Yes.”

“Should’ve known….” John shook his head and smiled.

“Why?”

“Because there’s no other way you’d tell Anderson off with an obviously wrong diagnosis if there’d been someone else trying to stick it on you,” John said and for some reason handing Sherlock the mug of tea he’d been holding.

“’Obviously wrong’, doctor?” Sherlock tried the tea with a smirk. “I didn’t know psychological evaluations were something you did.”

“I’m more qualified than you, anyway.”

“That’s debatable.” Sherlock kept smirking. “Curiosity satisfied?”

“Yes…and no.” John turned to make a second mug of tea. “Why do you claim to be a sociopath?”

Hm. Sherlock thought about it for a moment and decided that it might be a fair question. Not for anyone, but for John. 

“It excuses many quirks.” Sherlock admitted. “You cannot deny that I fit many parts of the diagnosis.”

“No. No, I can’t deny that.” John agreed with a nod and an amused smile. “But it’s a relief that no one has actually deemed you incapable of feeling empathy or remorse.” 

Sherlock smirked, he actually found that a relief too. At this point in his life, he thought of himself as pretty good at not needing emotions, but he could understand if that was an unattractive feature in a flatmate.

“That particular part is very efficient at keeping people on arm’s length, though,” Sherlock confessed, blowing on his tea.

“Because people are incurable morons?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted and John smirked, “And because people rarely want to get involved with someone they think can’t love them.”

John almost dropped his mug; Sherlock made a mental note that, apparently, that type of confession was shocking. 

“You rather tell people you’re a sociopath than allow anyone to come close to you? Do you really find people that horrible?”

“Not _people_. Sex.” Sherlock muttered and placed the mug on the table to pull out new gloves from the box beside him.

“Sex?”

Sherlock nodded, “I know it might sound a bit extreme, but-”

“’Might’? ‘A bit’?” John interrupted, “Sherlock, it’s insane!”

“To you, perhaps.”

“To everyone!” John shook his head in complete disbelief, “God, Sherlock. You’re not supposed to pretend to be a sociopath to avoid having sex.”

“No, because I’m supposed to want to have it, right?” Sherlock felt something break inside him.

“That’s…not what I meant,” John sighed.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock whispered under his breath and he turned back to his experiment.

“I never said that. It’s just…. Sex isn’t love. You don’t have to avoid one to stay free from the other.”

Sherlock ignored him and started to clean up by throwing away the collagen. The experiment was ruined. Everything was ruined.

“Sherlock….”

“John, please, stop.”

“You deserve to be loved.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and wished himself far from the kitchen. He didn’t want to have this conversation anymore, nor did he want John to remind him of what he had come to terms with living without.

John sighed, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder when walked passed him to the sitting room. “Don’t blow anything up. I’m going to watch some telly.”

Sherlock rolled his eye when John couldn’t see him; he was working with hydrogels, there was no way he would be able to blow that up. Half-way through the second try he gave up and looked at John who seemed to have a hard time settling on what to watch. Annoying. Sherlock walked over to the sitting room, lingering in the doorway.

“The things you said….” Sherlock hesitated when John muted the sound and looked at him, “I…. Thank you.”

“Just don’t forget it.” John smiled and turned the sound back on.

Sherlock watched him for a moment before he too sat down in front of the telly. He wouldn’t forget what John had said and the broken thing inside his chest seemed almost put back together again. He realised John cared for him – like Nina, Victor and Tess had done – and if he just managed to stay clean there was a real possibility he could keep John as a friend even after he stopped being his primary relationship.

* * *

Sherlock let out a sigh in relief when he heard John coming up the stairs, it had to be John. He had held out for long enough. John would stop him; he would yell and be angry, but he would stop him. Save him.

“Sherlock, have you taken my phone again? I can’t….” John trailed off when he entered the sitting room. He pointed suspiciously at the glass bottle and syringe on the table in front of Sherlock, “What’s that?”

Sherlock slowly raised his head. John already looked angry and it was strangely satisfying. The anger was a proof that he cared. The anger was also proof that John knew the answer to his own question and that Sherlock had no reason to lie. 

“Cocaine.”

“Coc- Sherlock!” John snatched the bottle, noticing the handwritten label as he did, “This is your writing.”

“Yes.”

“You diluted this yourself.” It wasn’t a question and it made Sherlock feel proud of John.

“Yes, I don’t trust anyone else to do it.”

“You say that as if it would make it better.”

Sherlock inhaled to tell John exactly why it was better that he made the solution himself, but when he saw how betrayed John was he exhaled an almost soundless “I’m sorry” instead.

“Where’s the rest?”

Sherlock looked confused, but John narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t try that with me, my sister’s an alcoholic. Where’s the rest?”

Sherlock hesitated, but the look John gave him made him get up and walk over to the bookshelf where he kept the stationary box he had inherited from his father. From under the false lid he retrieved the remains of the cocaine that hadn’t been used for the solution. 

“Sherlock.” John prompted sternly.

Sherlock closed the box more violently than necessary and handed John the small bag with a deep sigh. It was an incredible defeat and relief, all at once. 

“Anderson would never have found that one,” John muttered.

Sherlock didn’t know if it was supposed to be a joke or not, but he made an attempt to smile. It didn’t work. Instead he wrapped his arms around himself and took a step away from John who pocketed both the bag and the bottle.

“I’m…I’m going to go sit on the stairs.” John took a deep breath and pressed two fingers against the root of his nose, “Because I need to…. I need to sit on the stairs. For a bit.”

“John?”

“Just for a bit. I’ll be right outside. You’ll still see me, I won’t leave. I just, I….” John shook his head and picked the syringe off the table. Without even looking at Sherlock again he turned around, walked out the sitting-room and sat down on the top step of the stairs.

Sherlock followed but lingered in the door, studying John’s back without managing to deduce a thing. Had he ruined this now? Would John distance himself like Victor? Would he give up like Nina? Or pretend he didn’t see it like Tess?

Perhaps he would force him to stop like Mycroft?

“Come and sit,” John said without turning around and it didn’t take Sherlock long to obey.

John still held the syringe in his hand, rolling it between his fingers, and didn’t look at Sherlock when he sat down. 

“First time I use one of these was on Mike Stamford. I was rubbish. He was bruised for ages, never lets me forget it.” John said, sounding lost, not in a memory, just lost.

“I can teach you, if you like?” Sherlock tried.

“I know how to do it _now_.” A laugh got stuck in John’s throat and he shook his head. “Have you done this before?”

“No one starts by injecting cocaine, John.”

“I know, I’m not a complete idiot. And I’ve seen the nastier marks.” John put the syringe down on the other side of him, as if to make sure Sherlock stayed away from it. “I mean: have you been using since we moved here?”

“You’d know if I had.”

“And the things I have in my pocket?”

“I nicked it a year ago for a case, couldn’t get rid of it. So I put it in the stationary box.”

“Do you want me to get rid of it for you?” John finally looked at Sherlock. It was an earnest and tired question and all Sherlock could do was nod. He really wanted the cocaine gone.

John reached out and put his arm around Sherlock, gently hugging him. Sherlock immediately pulled away, but John just shook his head and pulled him back in again.

“We’re going to talk about this, believe me,” John whispered. “And don’t you dare pick-pocket me.”

Sherlock smiled. John probably attempted to make it sound like a threat but there was nothing intimidating about the situation. Not the drugs, not John’s arms around him. Not John’s smell, not the sound of his breathing, not his closeness.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself that he wasn’t wrong anymore, that he had it right. More importantly, he wasn’t alone. He had John. The feeling Sherlock had wanted to silence with the cocaine slowly ebbed away, erased by something completely different – a hug.

* * *

She hadn’t recognised him.

Sherlock looked up at the sky when he and John came out from the care home, trying really hard to delete the fact that his mother hadn’t known who he was. He knew it was partly his fault – he hadn’t visited her in eleven years – and the other part was, well, life. Biology. He couldn’t blame biology, but he wished he could.

Or at least Mycroft.

Oh, he really wished he could blame Mycroft for the feeling creating a lump in his chest. 

“You okay?” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock cleared his throat, but after meeting John’s eyes he corrected himself, “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded and rubbed his face with one hand, “I’m…. I think I’ll walk back.”

“Walk? Back to Baker Street? Sherlock, we’re in Sutton.” 

“You can take a cab. I just, I….”

“Come. We’ll walk for a bit.” John moved his hand to Sherlock’s back, gently pushing him up the pavement, away from the care home. 

They walked in silence, street after street, and John didn’t take his hand from Sherlock’s back. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn’t remember why he had asked John to come with him, but he was entirely grateful that he had. He had no idea where this walk would have taken him if he’d been alone.

Perhaps John thought about the same thing and that’s why he walked with him. Sherlock sometimes got the feeling that John knew him a bit too well. 

“Have they replied to your e-mails?” John asked when they’d walked for a little more than half an hour.

“Not yet,” Sherlock shook his head, feeling a nervous twist in his gut. 

“They will,” John sounded far too confident in the behaviour of people he had never met. 

Sherlock hummed quietly, he didn’t know what he expected from the e-mails. Nina, Victor and Tess had known him as straight and they’d known him as gay. They had even known him as a drug-addict. Now, on John’s initiative, they would also – finally! – get to know him as asexual. Though reluctant to write the e-mails at first Sherlock had to admit, at least to himself, that it made him feel at ease. He was now officially done with anonymous blowjobs in back alleys! 

Whatever happened, whatever his old friends said when (if) they replied, at least every person who had ever mattered to him would have it – him – right. And that would be true even if they didn’t write him back, even if they didn’t care, even if they didn’t believe him, even if….

Sherlock stopped dead and took a deep breath to stop his raising thoughts, earning himself a very worried look from John. 

“Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

“No,” he shook his head, “Just…. Can you remind me?”

“Of what?”

“The thing you said in the kitchen.”

“What? That we’re out of beans?”

“Never mind,” Sherlock shook his head, feeling incredibly stupid, and started walking again. John grabbed his arm and forced him to stop again.

“Sherlock, remind you of what?”

“That I deserve to be loved.” Sherlock mumbled, looking at his feet.  
“You deserve to be loved,” John said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and hugged him. “And you _are_ loved. By me.”

Sherlock waited a moment, but when John didn’t let go he raised his own arms and put them around John. It felt safe. For the first time in years – or perhaps ever – Sherlock felt that he had a place where he belonged.

Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's nickname for Rainflower is inspired by a stupid Swedish song from -95 called [Tess](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAzHQBVESPA). One line goes "Jag vet vad hon heter, men jag kallar henne Tess" ("I know her name, but I call her Tess"). It confused me back then and it confuses me now.


End file.
